On June 12, I got an e-mail that rocked my world. The writer, Laurie, asked if I was the “Atari Trudy Suggs,” and that I had become “somewhat of a folklore character” in her family. She explained that she and her two sisters had gotten an Atari console and a box full of games, and that my name was written on all the cartridges in silver pen.

She continued, “We have often wondered about Trudy, who she was, why she gave up her impressive collection of games or where she was today. If I remember correctly, my oldest sister even wrote you into an English class essay as a character at one point.”

I was transported back to when I got my Atari 2600 for Christmas. I hadn’t had the easiest childhood, but I was an only child and grandchild. Whatever crisis came into my family—there were many—the sadness was always overshadowed by the incredible amount of love showered upon me. I never lacked for clothes, toys, food or love.

Still, there was one item I so craved, besides my Barbie Dream House. On Friday nights, I loved playing arcade games while Mom bowled with her league; I favored Donkey Kong, Q*Bert, and Ms. Pac-Man. I got so much pleasure from dropping a quarter into the slot, and seeing PLAYER 1 appear on the screen. I wanted that at home, in the form of an Atari 2600. My family was definitely at the very bottom of the middle class, borderline poor, so I knew I’d never get an Atari. It was just so expensive, and the games were simply too costly. I still wanted one badly. I’d stare at it longingly every time I saw it in the store.

When I opened my Atari 2600 on Christmas Day in 1982, I did what any kid would have done: I thrust my fists in the air and screamed, “THANK YOU, SANTA CLAUS! THANK YOU!” I was eight, a bit old to believe in Santa Claus, but the sheer joy I felt that moment continues to be a defining moment in my life. (By the way, I figured out the truth about Santa that following January.)

Given the bad family situation I was in, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house two hours away. The Atari went back and forth with me, and was my source of comfort oftentimes.  Although I was a physically active child, my Atari games provided me with a unique way to relax indoors. Mind you, the games back then weren’t necessarily filled with realistic scenes like today’s games. The mental challenges in winning such simplistic games were what I liked, and gave me a sense of satisfaction even when I lost.

I pored over magazine articles on how to capture a perfect snapshot of my Pitfall high score. I spent quite a bit of time trying to angle my camera just right to avoid having the flash reflected on the screen. It never worked. That didn’t stop me from excitedly getting the photographs developed and trying to figure out which one to mail in for my free gift.

I had the Atari until perhaps high school, when I got a Nintendo 64 after much begging. I sold the Atari at a garage sale, and forgot about it for the most part. But still, when I saw pop culture references to Atari, it would bring a smile to my face and a brief, but happy, yearning for Atari.

On June 12, nearly three decades after I first got the Atari, Laurie’s e-mail transported me back in time. I remembered chortling as I mocked my mother’s futile attempts at playing Pac-Man and the happy times playing Atari with friends. I responded, confirming that I was the same Trudy Suggs. I knew it wasn’t a prank e-mail, because Laurie specifically referred to my writing in metallic silver ink. I have quite a few things from childhood I wrote on using that same silver marker. That silver marker was such a valuable commodity for me back then. The marker smell was heavenly, and to add a shiny touch to my name was gratifying.

I was astounded to find that my Atari had not faced a lonely, abandoned fate in some landfill; instead, it had gone to a family that seemed to have loved it as much as I did. I got introduced to a trio of wonderfully zany, hilarious and awesome sisters: Sara, Nancy and Laurie. This began a flurry of e-mail exchanges that delighted me. Even though I grew up in Illinois and they in Wisconsin, we all now live in Minnesota—something I like to think isn’t exactly a coincidence. Each had such a wonderful story about what she thought I was like and who I was, and they told of how they’d sit around talking about who Trudy Suggs was. They weren’t kidding when they said I was like a folklore character.

I felt oddly honored, almost incredulous, to know that I had such a fun role in another family. I knew I had to meet the sisters.

On June 26, my three-year-old daughter and I met the sisters at a coffee shop. As soon as I saw Sara coming towards me, I realized I was really among friends. They immediately gave me genuine hugs, and we all were excited at this amazing twist of fate, that such an antiquated item would have brought us together.  They were exactly what I had imagined from their e-mails. I showed them a notebook from when I was a child, filled with my juvenile writings—some in silver ink. One page contained a comprehensive list of all my Atari games that I had put together as an eight-and-half-year-old. They got as much of a kick out of that as I did, especially because in an earlier e-mail exchange, they had discussed the different games they got from me.

Nancy presented me with a metallic silver marker that I shall honor by writing on a few items with. I came home and told my husband I had found the perfect set of siblings that I hoped our children would emulate.

The Atari sisters also gave me something else: a renewed sense that this world is filled with the gifts of sincere, good people. And these gifts can be found anywhere, even in the form of an Atari console from 29 years ago.

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